


no plus ones allowed

by savemeaplate



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Blow Jobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Lance (Voltron), Come Swallowing, Creampie, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Lemon, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sexual Roleplay, Size Kink, Somnophilia, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), collegestudentlance!, consenualnonconset, landlordkeith!, landlordshiro!, somanydamnreferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savemeaplate/pseuds/savemeaplate
Summary: Lance's Thursday tries to kill him, so his rent's the last thing on his mind. His landlords find a work-around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> our boy Lance has a bad day. it gets better.

Okay, so here’s the deal, right — Lance feels like his life’s careening down a _really_ steep hill, and he’s somehow both the asshole behind the wheel, and the idiot in the passenger’s seat. Hell, he might even be the stupid dick in the backseat, too, throwing out useful advice just this side of too late (“Start that paper earlier” “mixing Red-Bull with Five Hour Energy is _definitely_ gonna make your heart shit itself” “Maybe don’t use your iron to heat up that hot pocket, unless you’re tryna wear Beef Taco fuckery on your chest for the next two weeks”).

Before that Thursday, the shitty things that happened to him kept a pretty tight schedule. He’d always have a bit of a refractory period after each disaster. His shards of bad luck would shine mean but distant, like stars in a city sky shot up the ass with light pollution. Super bright behind the haze, but weak for being alone. But some conscientious douche must of turned off all the street lamps, ‘cause now everything was shining bright as fuck, brilliant points of catastrophe in Lance’s sky falling into each other, tryna blind him. Lance wishes somebody had told him that bad luck has a boo thang because coño _,_ he would’ve thrown a sign on the creaky-ass door of his life then: _no plus ones allowed_.

But nah. Thursday brought with it thing after thing after _thing_.

He has a paper due that Thursday morning, and it gets turned in (Lance is _nothing_ if not faithful to his deadlines; he’s just always running around the house of his mind, trying to avoid them like they’re that one handsy tía at the barbecue). But Lance is pretty sure that it takes something out of him.

It’s t-minus six hours till his eight a.m. deadline, and Lance is sweating like a Big Tobacco exec in church, typing like his mamá is standing over him with a dollar store sandal in her hand. Hunk is on the phone on speaker, trying to talk him through it like he’s in labor.

“You got this, Lance.”

It’s the middle of the night, but Hunk’s trading sleep to give Lance’s spirit the emotional support it needs, that huggable-lovable angel.

“ _Ugh_!” Lance throws his head back, the picture of drama, but doesn’t stop typing.

He looks back at his screen, reads a sentence about JFK, and almost cries when he realizes that half of it is in Spanish, and the other half is in the clumsy, rushed language of the desperate but fucked. Or _nearly_ -fucked. Lance is a CapriSun packet half- _full_ type of kid.

“Okay, okay. This is the _last_ time I put something off till the last minute.”

“That’s what you said two weeks ago, right when you turned in that Great Depression paper like three seconds before midnight.”

“But I totally meant for that to be the last time. It’s the thought that counts!”

“Well I _think_ that past-Lance needs to stop fucking over future-Lance. Dude, you seriously spent an entire day last week watching _Narcos_.”

“Hunk, bud, if I wanted to have all my _honest mistakes_ thrown back in my face, I would’ve called my mama. Or Pidge.”

Hunk shifts in bed, he thinks. Lance hears shuffling and ruffling over his typing that could be blankets.

“And besides,” Lance keeps going, “ _Narcos_ was kinda for research.”

Hunk snorts. “Pablo Escobar and Cold-War-space-race politics?”

“Hey! Dude was dropping motherfuckers left and right, I’d say _that_ was pretty icy. And his drug network was _basically_ interstellar—”

“What page are you even on?”

Lance whimpers. “Six.”

“You’re almost done, you got this.”

“Hunk, this is the worst thing I’ve ever written in my entire life.”

“Dude, I’m sure it’s not that bad. Just focus on getting it done.”

“This is literally the Sharknado of papers.”

“Lance—”

“If I saw this paper coming down the sidewalk, I’d cross the street without looking.”

“Dude—”

“Can somebody _write_ pure disappointment? Like, is that a thing?”

“I mean, the script for The Last Airbender exists.”

Yeah, but M. Night Shyamalan would be _quaking_ if he could read what Lance turns in at 7:58 that morning. If you could distill regret and shoot it into a Google Doc, the product would be sitting in Holt’s inbox right about now, almost sentient with shittiness, force field of suckiness so killer that the honorable professor might leave that paper wishing he was illiterate. And, okay, maybe Lance is exaggerating a little, but he’s taken in enough caffeine to incapacitate a minor god at this point, and, honestly, he’s pretty stunned that his mind can still make thoughts at all. Best not criticize what they end up being. God might take him to be ungrateful and shut his motor functions down right this damn second. And he’s not due for a crash until like noon.

By the time he’s ripping off his sleep shirt and tripping over his Chem book on his way to the bathroom, Lance feels like a burst of storm water coming down a drain pipe, the ground inevitable. When he’s trying to make it through the world’s fastest Cetaphil-toner-Green Tea moisturizer lineup, he almost slips on an empty glass bottle of Starbucks, and he’s thinking, _hijo de la gran puta_ , somebody needs to outlaw caffeine. All of it. Lance feels like he could fight a car and its driver right about now.

He has one sneaker on when it hits him that his stupid French oral is today. Pidge slapped him upside the head when he said that he’d have to be on his knees to make any French oral worthwhile (oh but fuck her, that shit was hilarious), but now, as he’s standing in front of his cheap-ass Walmart printer throwing out Hail Mary’s like he didn’t stop going to church the second he got to college, he’s starting to realize that he’s about to get fucked anyway. His printer’s coughing like it’s got six months to live, and the pages that it _does_ manage to print are so faded that Lance can barely read what the say. Wait, they’re in French, which he really sucks at reading. So let’s strikethrough _barely_ and replace it with _not at fucking all_ . Sure, he can speak it like he spent his childhood mornings on the Seine; seduction’s the silhouette language that’s hanging off of French in a smooth faint blackness, and Lance has _that_ syntax down pat. Like he told Pidge, Satan’s lovechild, “ _Lance_ rhymes with _France_ .” And that shit _means_ something.

Right. Lance just wishes he could figure out what that is, no more than right now, when he’s trying to coax a clear, legible page of notes from his dying printer before it goes all _and the rest is silence_ on his ass. Aaaand good night, sweet prince, his printer’s little interface is flashing red. He’s not getting anything out of her, and Lance looks down at her forlornly, already knowing that she’s gonna need to be replaced. But, and Hunk would probably give him that stupid, disappointed mom look he’s so good at, _that_ is a problem for Future Lance.

So, no printed notes. He has exactly zero of it memorized, and Madame Rousseau refuses to let anybody read from their phones. Let’s see—class starts in about, hm, _now_ , so he’s hard-up for literally any other solution. A guy could really use a deus ex machina right about now.

Lance runs the entire ten minutes to the Cartier building, gets there with his lungs feeling like they could fall out of his chest and into his stomach any moment. Madame Rousseau looks about ready to Walker Texas Ranger roundhouse kick him in the face when he walks in, but Lance doubts she’d want to interrupt Lotor’s presentation on the Celtic Gaul. Jesus, you mention the lady’s actually from Algeria _one time_ and she hates your ass like she’s getting paid to do it.  

And then it’s Lance’s turn. When he picked it out, French pop music seemed like a good ass topic. An interesting one, real easy on the academic engagement. But, oh boy, when he’s standing up there comme un gran idiota, someone might as well have handed him a three-month old baby and been like, “here, raise this.” He Hydrogen bombs it. Nukes it. Nevada test site, who? Come on down to Madame Rousseau’s room, look over at where Lance is standing and you’re gonna see craters like huge bowls at his feet in the carpet, behind his back on the chalkboard.

It’s a good thing he’s the last person to present, because all he wants to do after that is leave. His next two classes are super uneventful, like God’s seen him falling through the atmosphere and he’s decided to snatch him up into cosmic safety, right before he’s had the chance to impale himself on a radio station antenna. Chem’s just as nonsensical as ever (and yeah, maybe he shouldn’t be asleep for half of it, but how much would he understand about binding cooperativity awake anyway?), and he’s crashing by the time he gets to his class on ocean history. Hell, somebody could probably throw him into the deep sea right about now, and he doubts he’d feel it.

“Hope it happens,” Pidge encourages from the seat right next to him. He forgot that that happens sometimes, thoughts running seamless out his mouth. Shit that he probably shouldn't ever say out loud feints just out of the reach of his control, dances into crossovers that would have Mike Jordan looking back at his baseball career all nostalgic.

“I wanna see if stupid sinks.”

Lance squawks, and some poor bastard a row in front of them jumps awake. “I hope they cancel Mr. Robot.”

“I hope you break out.”

“Keep that same energy when your lenses shatter and fall into your eyes, and you need Lance to Sun Dance over to ER with you.”

“You know my lenses are plastic, right?”

“Let me have this!”

And what, you might ask, could possibly make his day any worse? You might need to stop asking so many damn questions. Lance’s life is a shelf right now, and the universe is tryna figure out just how much shit it can stack on top of that cute little surface before it buckles under the weight and needs fixing. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to anyone in the history of anything. Puts the initial screening audience of Sharknado to shame. The poor cop who had to arrest Martha Stewart, America’s fave aunt, might even feel bad for Lance at this point. Those dudes Tim Allen snitched on when he got busted with coke would probably throw out a quick, somber, “shit, dude,” if they could see the depth of Lance’s plight.

It starts raining while he’s walking back to his apartment.

Like, hard.

Like, really hard.

Shit’s coming down in sheets, sloshing around in the dips and depressions at the side of the roads. Potholes are promoted to those concavities in the rocks at the bottom of waterfalls, rain coming down into them hard, coming up harder. It’s like God’s left his damn faucet running.

And Lance? Well, Lance is soaked. Shirt’s glued to his body, jeans have forgotten that they’re supposed to be blue, not black, and his shoes are un desastre _._ Good thing he hadn’t bothered to bring his bag or his laptop, ‘cause the loss of the latter would’ve had him breaking bitches’ car windows. He runs back, as best he can with his sneakers like wet carpet on his feet, and by the time he makes it his building, it’s started raining even _harder_. Like God’s kid left one of the sinks on, too.

He strips, and not even in the fun way. When he’s dry he crawls into his bed for a nap-nap. Yes, nap-nap is good.

Naps are dangerous. One of two things could happen: Lance could wake up refreshed as hell, feeling like the sun is shooting out of his ass and his dick’s made of rainbows, or he could wake up unbelievably groggy, feeling like somebody just beat him like an old dusty rug. What happens this time is a first—blurred consciousness holds him, hazy and opaque, like someone breathed too long on a glass window while it was cold outside. He’s not really asleep, but he’s not all that awake, and he’s pretty sure his body is just confused as hell right now. Like that time he was just tryna have a good old-fashioned jerk-off and accidentally clicked on this video of some guy cumming on a bunch of G.I. Joe action figures. RIP, childhood, bienvenido, kink he didn’t even know could exist. And all he could think when he was staring at the black screen when the clip ended was G.I. Joe: Rise of This Dick.

So, yeah. He’s awake, except not really, so he’s not entirely sure if he imagines somebody knocking at his door. He’s waiting for this murky unconsciousness to crystallize into solid sleep when the knocks get louder. And louder, and oh fucking hell, who in the sweet and sour fuck would—

Oh. Oh fuck.

 _Puta mierda_ , in the mess of the grease fire that was his morning, he’d completely

forgotten that his rent is due today. In full. Lance always thought that he would die in a cool way, like in a bar fight over a game of pool with his hair all perfect (obviously) and his soy face cleanser puttin’ in that _work_ , skin all a-glowing like he’s the young Antonio Banderas of dying right. But nah. It all ends here. College, you salty bitch.

Lance throws on some pants (hah) and he’s forced to pull on a shirt he’s pretty sure clashes unbelievably with them, because nothing is sacred and the knocks are getting louder.

Honestly, fuck this damn school. Housing is only guaranteed for the first year, and after that everybody has to either commute (which is impossible for his Florida-residing ass, unless he figures out a way to fucking apparate) or live in one of the subsidized apartments near the campus. They’re owned by third parties and sure, the university makes them a bit cheaper for students to rent out, but it’s honestly like having somebody put you in a bathtub full of ice after they steal your kidneys— _technically_ nice, but, you’re left feeling like everything could’ve been avoided in the first place.

Lance was gonna live with Pidge (“I wouldn’t even mind it if Hunk fed you after midnight and you tried to eat my gorgeous face off!”) and his beautiful babe Hunk, but there were some weird scholarship complications that he couldn’t eye-smolder his way out of. So he was stuck, Pidge-and-Hunk-less, in what was literally one of the farthest buildings from the main campus.

And Lance was able to avoid his landlords last month, but he has no choice but to confront them now, or else his cousin Yuniel’s gonna have to die for the second time (don’t you dare judge, it’s harder than a pornstar’s dick out in these streets).

So he gets to the door, heart clogging up his throat and rent check most _assuredly_ non-existent, and he opens that motherfucker, because mami didn’t raise a bitch. But as the door’s opening he’s starting to think that papi might’ve.

He’d almost forgotten how hot his landlord Shiro was. Looking at that face now, Lance wants to do penance for his slip in memory. Guy looks like he just stepped off a GQ spread, jawline and cheekbones so damn sharp that Lance has to wonder where the hell this man was when Ms. Parks from ninth grade Geometry was yelling at him for leaving his slide-rule at home. Eyes like dark marble, like the sky when it’s snowing, like Lance’s ceiling at night when he turns off the lights in his room and moonlight swings through his window to interrupt the dark. Dude ruins undercuts for literally anyone else, especially with that white forelock, like a white dwarf star ran a quick hand through the hair hanging over his forehead. Yup, hard to forget.

Shiro’s always smiling real easy, it’s his thing. If he was a Sim, it’d be his default facial expression. He’s friendly as all hell, even, apparently, to tenants with delinquent rent payments.

“Hey Lance,” he says, and Lance swears he can feel that baritone in his chest.

“Uh, hi Shiro.”

“Shiro, you’re not working the food line at Shop-n-Save, we’re here for rent money.”

Lance looks over to the guy who just started talking. He’s leaning against the wall directly across from Lance’s door, and he’s gorgeous, sure, but he’s angry as hell, arms crossed, brows furrowed. Dude looks like he brings hell with him wherever he goes, keeps it in his pockets and lets it rip like a damn Beyblade whenever he feels like it. He looks mean. But it’s gonna take more than that to deter ole Lancey Lance (Pidge once called him Student Debt, but he took it as a compliment tbh: “I’m always there, and I’ll ruin your life if you ignore me. I love it!”), so he smiles at the dude. He’s only ever seen this much hair on a guy twice—the first time was at a Rico Suave concert that tía Valeria dragged him to, and the second time was that dark, dark period when his tío Rafael was trying to relive his prime. _He_ said that he looked like John Stamos from his Full House days, but Lance thought, and told him, that he looked like Edna Mode from the Incredibles.

Tio Rafa still won’t talk to him.

But yeah. Black strands are brushing across Angry Hot Dude’s shoulders, and his hair’s falling into his face. When he looks up, he has the strangest eyes Lance has ever seen. They kind of remind him of those pictures of deep space, those star clusters that confuse the darkness around them into a thick, heavy purple.

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Keith—”

“We stay here any longer and my pubes are gonna start graying.”

Shiro smirks without looking at him. “They’re already graying, Keith.”

“Fuck off.”

Okay, so having to talk to your hot, hot landlord after you’ve skimped out on rent for the past month is a pretty nerve-wracking venture. And Lance… well, Lance does this strange thing that’s completely unlike him when he gets nervous—if you can believe it, he starts talking out of his ass.

So while he means to say, “Oh wow, Shiro, I’m so sorry that I didn’t pay my rent last month. I, unfortunately, don’t have the money this month either,” what actually comes out is directed at Keith, and it’s “You look like you just stepped out of line for a Vampire Diaries casting call.”

Lance can’t be smooth _all_ the time, the world needs balance. Night has day, fire has water, and Sauve Lance has… other, less-Sauve Lance.

Keith looks even angrier now, like he might punch through a wall. Or a Lance.

Shiro, like a true diplomat, snatches up the situation in his large, strong hands and sets it right on its feet.

“Keith, don’t.” Then, he turns to Lance, still wearing that bright ass smile. “Lance, I don’t think you’ve met Keith before. He’s my partner.” _In a lot of different ways_ , Lance hears in the pause that chases what Shiro says.

“Mhm,” Lance hums, “and you brought him here to help you collect? Isn’t this the literal beginning of Pulp Fiction? Y’all aren’t gonna start reciting Bible verses at me, are you? Shit, wait, _yes_ , I know what they call a Quarter Pounder with cheese in Paris—”

“Lance,” Shiro stops his nervous Lancing, “calm down. Keith was bored, so he wanted to tag along.”

Lance glances at Keith again. “Yeah, he really looks like he wants to be here.”

“Nah, I think you’ve got it confused.” Keith pushes up off of the wall, walks up to stand next to Shiro. “ _You’re_ the one who doesn’t wanna be here. People who wanna be here pay their rent.”

Lance can feel his face getting hot. “Okay, yeah, maybe I _have_ been avoiding you guys, but it’s only because I don’t have the money! Why waste my time and yours? And I’ve been working my ass off! Do you have any idea how hard it is to give campus tours, twirling around like a coked up Disney princess, pretending like you _don’t_ hate this school?”

“Lance,” Shiro says, eyes gentle, “we get it. We’re actually here to talk to you about a payment plan.”

Shiro’s still smiling all big and inviting, and how could Lance ever _not_ let a face like that into his apartment? I mean, there’s also the teeny little insignificant fact of Shiro literally owning this place, but let’s gloss over that for now.

 _Apartment_ is a pretty liberal description of the place. It’s big enough that Lance was able to drag in his ratty blue futon, and he even somehow managed to coax a coffee table into the single-room, but things are a bit of a squeeze. His bed is still messy from his nap before, and Lance feels the weirdest little urge, nipping at the back of his mind, to fix it.

Keith is slight, lean, but Shiro is a pretty big boy. The room looks smaller with him in it. Lance sits down on the edge of his bed while Shiro lounges on his futon like he lives here. Keith, like he’s trying to do a full triple axle on Lance’s last nerve, sits on the coffee table. Rebel. How original.

“Payment plan?” Lance asks, hopes his voice is balancing well between curiosity and that panicky-sweet note of _please don’t evict me_.

Shiro nods, slouches further into the futon and throws a casual arm on the back.

“I’ve been to college, Lance—it’s hard. Which I totally get. You’re an astronomy major, right?” Lance nods. “Between that and everything else that’s going on around here, your job, your social life, whatever else, I understand how something like this could’ve fallen through the cracks. As a kid, living somewhere without having to pay for it is kind of a given. God _knows_ the one thing I miss most about being a kid, is not having any bills,” (Lance wants to be like, “ _that’s_ what you miss most, my dude?” but he figures he probably shouldn’t. What? A boy knows how to read a situation), “But you know what happened, Lance, is that I grew up. Can’t be helped.”

Shiro’s still wearing that easy, sure-I’ll-help-you-with-your-groceries-random-stranger smile, but the back of Lance’s neck feels hot. He fidgets, and his foot almost hits Keith’s. Lance had nearly forgotten that the dude was there.

Keith’s face is unreadable.

The sun, that asshole, chooses this moment to come back to the sky that needed it.

Shiro keeps going. “Things cost money.” He shrugs. “Whatever. But the most important thing that I’ve learned from paying bills is _exchange_. Giving something to someone, expecting something back.”

The nape of Lance’s neck feels damp.

“What…” Lance clears his throat, annoyed that his voice is trying to betray him right now, that fucking Benedict Arnold. “What do you mean?”

“Payment plan.” Shiro laughs a little, and Keith’s face looks like it wants to thaw into a smile, but Lance, for the life of him, can’t figure out what the hell is so funny.

Eyes like room-temperature mercury hold him steady, dare him to move.

“I got plans for you, Lance.”

And Lance gets it, almost immediately, but he’s made a pretty profitable, durable career of playing up his ignorance to either a) make people laugh or b) fucking snake his way out of situations that he doesn’t wanna be in. So he turns that dial up as far as it can go, almost rips the knob off.

“What do you mean?”

Keith scoffs. Shiro’s smile apparently always wanted to be a smirk when it grew up, and it does just that.

Keith looks up, arms still crossed, still looking like he would curb stomp Mickey Mouse himself if our little cheery-eyed friend looked at him wrong. Stares Lance down with eyes like deep space, like an inscrutable cosmic past.

“You owe us two months rent. Let us fuck you, and we’ll call it even.”

Yup, just like that. The universe grabs Lance by his belt loops and the back of his collar and chucks him headfirst into some bad porn set-up. And, wow, Lance can literally feel the heat in his hands and arms and legs running up the hallways of his veins until the bottom of his stomach is the only place warmth can live.

Lance’s eyes widen, his heart starts to beat a quick cha-cha-cha, one-two-three step behind the sticks of his ribs, and ya boy starts to sweat. Boy oh boy, Lance can feel that shit gliding down his scalp like it has some business to take care of at his nape.

“Holy fuck! Wait, you want t-to— and then you’re gonna— I’m _not_ some whore that you can walk in here and just— I-I don’t, I don’t _do_ that, I—”

Shiro’s looking at him like he can see what’s gonna come of all this protesting.

“Lance,” he says, and he’s still speaking at the same volume but it seems like his voice is taking up the rest of the space in Lance’s room, hardening into a fourth person, brushing past him as it moves between the coffee table and the bed, almost knocking his alarm clock over while it’s pacing in front of his far wall.

Panic grabs some people by their ankles and drags them into silence, but Lance… well, Lance doesn’t budge. He tethers himself to a wall, a ceiling, a floor, whatever, with all his talking. So the panic just climbs his back and holds on tight, domineers every move he makes.

“A-and you can fuck _right_ off. Does this look like Brazzers to you? I-I may be a lot of things, but I am _not_ some yee-yaw discount slut that would just _bend over_ a table for you _assholes_ at the first sign of—”

“Lance,” Shiro says again, “think about this. Your pride’s gonna chase you right back to Florida. I know just how important this place is to you, and I _get_ it. The last thing we want is for you to have to leave. So, consider: you take us up on this, and you get to stay here, finish your degree. Then, grad school, a fellowship, who knows? You’re already smart. _Graduating_ from here is gonna make you damn near unstoppable.”

Shiro is getting up, and, holy shit, is he bigger than he was a few minutes ago?

“So _think_ ,” and he’s walking around the coffee table now, takes a few moments to drag the pads of his fingers across the back of Keith’s neck, keeps coming up to Lance like it didn’t even happen, “you get to stay here, which you absolutely deserve.”

He’s in front of Lance now, and Lance almost snaps his neck tryna look up at the dude. Shiro puts those big, big hands on his knees, and Lance can feel his pulse in his throat. Shiro spreads his legs to stand in between them, braces his arms next to Lance’s thighs, leans forward until you could barely stick a copy of People in the space that separates his face from Lance’s.

“And I finally get to fuck the ass I’ve been starin’ at for the past year and a half.”

Lance didn’t even see Keith get up, but now there’s a warm hand on his neck, another one playing with the edge of his _Aristocats_ shirt (and, holy shit, why did his brain choose _now_ of all times to remind him that that’s what the hell he’s wearing?).

And that angry, hot motherfucker breathes against his ear, “so what’s it gonna be, gorgeous?”

Okay, so, Lance can literally feel the rational, logical part of his mind tryna call a sidebar with the rest of him. And boy oh boy, is it having a time, trying to fight against Lance’s panic at potentially losing his housing and his fear of his mamá’s disappointment and his indignation at having to leave school _before_ he even got a chance to streak across campus. Logical, Rational Lance is terribly outnumbered, worse off than that one dude with the rope bandana from the opening scene of Kung Fu Hustle. So Lance thinks about having to leave, going back down south and trying to find another school, another scholarship, _knowing_ that this school is better than any school he could’ve _ever_ , in his wildest dreams, imagined getting into. His fucking dream school. And he would do anything, anything at all, to stay here. Logical, Rational Lance is Gerard Butler against Xerxes and the Persian army—brave, and fierce as hell, but…

Did homeboy ever _really_ stand a chance?

So he tries to look up at Shiro, with Keith’s hand still on his neck, and he finds that he can’t make eye contact with the dude. So he’s staring at his Statue of David chin when he stutters,

“C… can we close the blinds?”

As it turns out, because cosmic irony apparently has both a hard-on for, and grudge against Lance, lean, pretty Keith is strong as hell. Keith takes Lance’s place at the edge of the bed, drags Lance into his lap like he bench-presses skinny college boys everyday.

Lance is hard instantly.

It’s taken _light photons_ more time to get to from one point to the next than it takes for Lance’s body to divert all his blood to little Lancito.

Keith turns his head to the side, forces Lance to look him in the eye.

“Don’t bite,” he growls. And the fucker’s smirking when he adds, “I might, though.”

Keith nips his bottom lip to prove he’s a man of his word, and Lance whimpers. Keith’s tongue is immediately in his mouth, and honestly, the guy kisses just how he looks like he would—hard as hell, and you better figure out how to keep up, because he’s giving you _no_ quarter. He’s jumping off the side of a craggy, gray cliff with rocks like glass, and your only choice is to wrap yourself around him and hold on tight, if you wanna make it to the bottom whole. Keith licks the roof of his mouth, strokes his tongue, and Lance _moans_ . And his pride has him feeling like, _really? Already?_

Shiro picks up on it too. “Responsive, aren’t we?”

Keith pulls back, lets Lance take in some air before ya boy passes the fuck out.

“Mmm,” he hums, “already so loud. Wonder if we can make him _sing_ …”

Shiro takes that as some kind of signal, pushes Lance’s shirt all the way up his stomach and chest till it bunches up right above his nipples.

“I _wonder_ ,” Shiro agrees lowly, drags his fingers up and down Lance’s stomach, grabs his waist with both his big, big hands.

And Lance thinks that if Shiro really wanted to, if he really tried it, he’d be able to make the tips of his thumbs meet over his belly-button. And that shit has him biting his lip, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“So tiny,” Shiro murmurs, squeezes slightly. Lance feels his dick jump.

Keith’s kissing his neck now, bringing bruises to life and parking them right in that spot where his neck meets his shoulder.

“Could break you in half, if we really wanted to,” he whispers against Lance’s skin.

“Hey!” Lance objects. And yeah, he might be harder than a Christmas court date but he still has his pride. “Are you guys here to fuck me or bully me?”

“Calm down, baby,” Shiro murmurs, dragging his hands up Lance’s sides. “The first, of course…” He rubs each nipple with a thumb, and Lance, without quite realizing it, rolls his hips. “But you’re just so damn _fun_ to mess with.”

Shiro had been rubbing his nipples at a slow, easy pace up until now, looking about as smug as a personal injury lawyer at a four-way intersection with no traffic lights. But now he _presses down_ , starts rubbing faster, until Lance’s dick is pushing up against the front of his sweats like _please open, hard inside_.

“What do you think, Shiro?” Keith asks, noses the little spot right behind Lance’s ear, rubs a palm against Lance’s dick through his pants, makes Lance gasp, “think he’ll make it?”

Shiro looks Lance straight in the eye, pulls Lance’s sweats down in one smooth motion,  and wraps a warm, rough hand around his dick (yeah, he’s not wearing underwear, but who the hell wears underwear with sweats while they’re just loungin’ around in their _own room_? No, he’s not defensive. You’re defensive).

The big beautiful bastard strokes Lance from base to tip, keeps looking at him with those river-stone eyes, and Lance doesn’t know if it’s his anxiety at the nature of the situation or what, but he almost cums on the spot. Would have, if Shiro hadn’t grabbed the base of his dick as fast as a teenage boy snatching his phone out somebody’s hand before they scroll too reckless and spot some nudes (not that Lance would have any experience with that. Ahem.). He doesn’t cum, but it’s a close, close thing.

“No,” Shiro answers.

He brings his index finger up to Lance’s tip, plays with the pre-cum there where it sits clear and sticky. Then he starts stroking Lance languidly, lazily, with that same self-satisfied smirk on his face. Lance finds himself thrusting up to meet him, matching his pace, going tit-for-tat with his rhythm.

And they said those dance classes were useless. Ha, if Marco could see him now. Okay, maybe not.

Lance can’t keep his eyes open anymore, throws his head back against Keith’s shoulder. Shiro’s stroking him with agonizing slowness, and carajo, Lance doesn’t think anyone’s ever paid so much attention to the sensitive head of his dick. Shiro just keeps dragging the pad of his finger over the little opening, does it and does it and _does it_ until Lance can feel precum mapping quick, thin streams down his length.

“Oh, f-fuck, oh my _God_ …”

Shiro’s dexterity has his stomach in knots, has heat dribbling down into his stomach and oh fuck he’s close, he’s so _fucking close—_

Shiro slows down, grabs the hair at the crown of Lance’s head and pulls him forward, and Lance lets out an involuntary little sob. When Lance opens his eyes, startled, it’s like every filthy, dirty thing Shiro’s about to do to him is swimming right behind the crystalline silver of his eyes. Oh dios.

Shiro’s grip tightens a little on Lance’s hair when he says, “I want you to look at me when you cum.”

And his hand is moving again, faster than before. Shiro’s stroking, base to tip, base to fucking _tip_ , and Lance’s eyes start to water but he’s _obeying_ goddamit, he doesn’t close them until his climax runs from his throat to his dick and hot, white spurts run over Shiro’s knuckles. Then… well, then he can’t really help it.

Shiro strokes him through the aftershocks, and Keith, a solid heat at his back, is whispering in his ear,

“Shhh, that was so good… so good, you’re so good for us…”

“Yeah baby,” Shiro agrees, “behavin’ so well…”

Shiro leans forward then, opens up his mouth with his tongue like Lance belongs to him, licks at his tongue and teeth like it’s nothing, like Lance is a damn given. Kisses him so good that Lance’s dick is trying to make like an estranged father and reenter the picture. And if Keith’s kisses force you to figure out how to keep up, show you no kind of mercy, Shiro kisses like he hasn’t even considered that you’d want leniency. Dude kisses like he knows you’re not going anywhere.

And to make things worse… or better… no, definitely worse (Lance is finding it harder and harder to remind himself that he’s being taken advantage of), Keith has decided to start thrusting up against him. Keith’s still wearing pants, and the rough denim of his biker-may-care jeans is rubbing up against the smooth skin of Lance’s thighs, his exposed ass.

He pushes Lance forward a little bit so he can take Lance’s shirt off the rest of the way.

“Shiro,” Keith asks, fingers dancing up and down Lance’s stomach, dipping into his belly-button, making him groan low, “Shiro, how’s it lookin’?”

Shiro’s taking off his shirt now, and… well, dude is ripped as hell.  You could probably use his abs as a damn xylophone. And dude’s got biceps as wide across as one of Lance’s thighs. He looks down at Lance’s hardening dick, and Lance flushes. Shiro smirks at Keith over his shoulder and says,

“He’s too good to be true.”

Keith scoots up the bed until his back is up against Lance’s headboard, brings Lance along with like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“How the fuck are you so strong?” Lance means for it to sound more indignant, but it honestly just comes out desperate. Either one of these assholes can throw him around no problem, and it turns Lance on so damn much that he almost forgets to be angry.

Keith chuckles, “I dunno, maybe you’re just weak.”

And Lance means to launch a fourteen-point objection to that but then he’s being flipped over by Shiro so he’s on his stomach now. Shiro grabs his hips and pulls him into a tight, low kneel while Keith takes off his pants and briefs.

Lance is still tryna catch his breath when a small blue bottle of lube and a condom land right next to his elbow.

He looks up at Keith, breathes, “You really did have plans for me...”

“Yup,” Keith agrees, pops the _p_ , strokes his pretty, pale dick, “you know, we always wanted you like this… I’d take your mouth…”

“And I’d have your ass,” Shiro interjects, palms Lance’s cheeks for emphasis.

“But we could never _quite_ figure out how to do it, how to get it to happen…” Those violet eyes flash as Keith rubs a thumb over his tip, gasps a bit, “but then you threw the door wide open for us…”

Keith grabs his chin, forces him to look up at him. He slides a thumb into Lance’s mouth, drags the pad of it up and down his tongue until Lance’s eyes fall closed.

“Mmm,” Lance moans.

Keith lets out a short _huff_ of a laugh. “Beautiful.”

When Keith pulls Lance up closer by his hair, Lance expects his dick to immediately replace his thumb. But instead, Keith drags his tip along Lance’s bottom lip, back and forth, teases him with it until precum is sitting on his mouth like chapstick.

“Open up, babe,” Keith encourages, pushes in.

And okay, Lance really likes sucking dick, but it’s not for the reasons that most people would probably expect. It’s not because he likes the idea of holding control over somebody like that. It’s not because he’s a huge cum-flavor enthusiast. No no no, it’s something else entirely. There’s something that Lance finds deliciously obscene about having a part of himself that people can always see be used like this. To have a dick push into something so typical, so utilitarian. _Having_ Keith’s saltiness on his tongue, inside his mouth until it’s all he can taste, is what carries his dick over to its second round of full hardness. He holds a hand out to support himself, uses the other to grip Keith’s length as he takes him in. He’s stroking the smooth, velvety skin of Keith’s base as Keith’s dick wanders towards the back of his mouth. He can feel him at his throat. Keith has his hand in Lance’s hair, scratches at his scalp lightly. It feels so good that Lance _purrs_.

“Mmm,” Keith moans, head thrown back, “so good, baby, so _good_ …”

Lance raises a brow, like, _oh really? Lemme show you just how good I can be_.

And he takes him into his throat.

Lance’s hands are just resting on Keith’s thighs. Not like he has enough leverage to hold Keith down, even if he wanted to. And he _should_ want to, _dios_ he should really want to. _Hey, we know that losing out on housing here could literally undermine everything you’ve been working towards for the past, let’s see, most of your life, so let us have sex with you, and we’ll make sure you don’t get kicked out_. It’s an awful fucking trade, and Lance knows that Keith and Shiro are tugging at the edges of his disadvantage, pulling it open until his weakness is staring up at them ragged and loose like a tear. And God, that shit should have every little piece of him rioting, whipping out the picket signs, the pitchforks, the torches. Instead his dick, hanging heavy between his legs, is leaking onto his bedsheets, harder than linear algebra on a four-function calculator.

Keith bucks up, and Lance supposes that somebody with a gag reflex would’ve probably been _stressed_ . But not Lance. Lance takes him in, sucks him down until his nose is flush with Keith’s neatly trimmed pubic hair. Feels Keith sliding in and out of his throat as he looks up at the man and _holy shit_ , Lance feels like he could definitely get behind the dude’s hairstyle at this point—Keith is a fucking _vision_ with pieces of his obsidian hair sticking to his forehead, his neck. Lance wants to reach down and touch himself, but his pride won’t let him. No way he cums before this guy. Well, no way he cums before this guy _again_ . He can feel the hot, smooth tip of Keith’s dick sliding along the roof of his mouth as he pulls off, and _fuck_ , Lance already knows that that’s gonna be a sore throat tomorrow. But dammit if the thought doesn’t have his face feeling like somebody set it on fire, his dick doing its damn best to magnify his post-fuck laundry woes. His eyes are watering, and he blinks away his tears. Feels them breaking up into tributaries, falling slow and patient down his cheeks.

Keith grabs his chin. “Your eyes are perfect for sucking dick… so damn _pretty_ …”

Lance can feel the pre-cum and saliva on his chin, and his hair must be absolute chaos. He’s thinking that he must look like such a mess right now, but Keith’s looking down at him like he’s a damn… well, he’s not gonna say sunset, because he seriously doubts anybody’s ever wanted to put their dick inside a sunset. But Keith’s looking at him like Lance is wholly irresistible, irises long since eaten up by his pupils. Cheeks looking like somebody with their hands covered in high-definition red blush ran a careless hand over his face. And his lips, fucking _olvídate_ . They’re swollen, red as cherries. Keith’s only been kissing him, and he looks like he’s had his mouth wrapped around somebody’s dick. Lance wonders what _he_ must look like, seeing as how, ahem, he’d _actually_ had his mouth wrapped around somebody’s dick.

Keith gets a better grip on his hair, pulls him up a little bit to slip his tongue inside his mouth, no pretense, no teasing. Keith’s kissing him sloppy, the dude’s practically counting teeth, and then Lance realizes that he can probably taste himself inside his mouth and _that_ has him groaning. Keith hums, letting Lance know that he _fully_ endorses those little sounds. And he’s not the only one.

“Mmm, be loud for us, baby,” Shiro growls from behind him. And holy fuck, was he just hanging back that whole time while Keith fucked Lance’s mouth? Was he jacking off to it? Lance strains to look over his shoulder, feels like somebody’s siphoning the air from his lungs, like gas prices are climbing nonstop and he’s an unattended Honda Civic in a crowded mall parking lot. And _yeah_ , dude was definitely jacking off to Lance’s throat-fuck before, has a hand wrapped around his dick and… well, what can Lance say, really? Shiro is beautifully, wonderfully proportional. Big dick for a big dude. Shiro catches Lance looking and smirks, eyes looking less like seafoam and more like lava glass. Strokes his dick leisurely, in no rush.

When he stops stroking, grabs the bottle of lube, Lance has to look away. He buries his face in one of Keith’s thighs, and Keith takes a hold of his hair with some out-of-character gentleness, turns his face until Lance’s mouth is up against the base of his dick. It’s not a super conventional angle, but as Shiro’s taking each of his ass cheeks in hand, spreading them until his hole meets the room’s air and he blinks hard once in anticipation, Lance sees what Keith’s doing. He doesn’t really expect Lance to do much right now. He’s trying to not overwhelm him while Shiro’s getting him ready, which is hella sweet.

But it makes Lance wonder what the hell he’s about to get into.

And then the fucker at his ass starts _talking_.

“ _Fuck_ Lance, this _ass_...”

He’s palming Lance’s cheeks, playing with them, squeezing them until Lance thrusts down against the bed and okay, hello _other_ kink Lance didn’t know could exist.

“Ah… m-my genetics say you’re, _ah_ , welcome…”

Shiro gives one of his cheeks a little slap, just enough to sting, and Lance yelps.

Keith bends down to whisper low and gravelly into his ear, “he loves when you’re sassy, because then he has a reason to be mean to you.”

Shiro slaps him again, harder this time, has Lance whispering a quick _carajo_ against Keith’s dick. The breath has Keith hissing through his teeth.

Keith continues. “Not that he needs a reason.”

“Damn right,” Shiro agrees, slaps Lance’s ass one more time for emphasis. Guy’s a regular showman.

Lance hears the lube bottle popping open, and there’s a timeless slip of reality where no one’s moving, all he can smell is Keith’s musk and soap, and all he can see is the pale, smooth length of Keith’s hard dick, absolutely _delighted_ with everything that’s going on, against his stomach.

And sometimes, what you expect isn’t what you get. Open up a pack of Twinkies, you get a Ding-Dong. Open up the fridge after mami tells you _there’s food at home, muchacho_ and you get a face full of disappointment and an open can of tomato paste.

Lance expects a lubed-up finger at his entrance. What he gets is Shiro’s tongue at his rim, warm and wet, coaxing his hole open with measured, practiced strokes and—

“ _Mmmm_ ah _fffuck_! Oh God—”

—yup, his tongue’s inside him now. And when Shiro said that he’d wanted his ass for a year and a half, he must’ve been as serious as a Marvel fanboy on a Reddit thread about an unanticipated recast. Dude eats him out like that’s the complete and utter truth, unabridged. Shiro thrusts his tongue into Lance’s hole, fucks him on it, laps at his walls with sloppy, uninhibited grace. Pulls out to lick a broad stripe over his rim and Lance is, well Lance is—

“Fucking _fuck oh my God_ , oh _dios… si, si si si_ …”

And Lance wants, more than anything, more than he wants the Spice Girls to get back together permanently, to thrust down against his bed until he comes. He doesn’t even need a hand from anyone, he doesn’t think. If _anything_ has _any_ sort of prolonged contact with his dick, he’s pretty sure it’ll break him. And then, _carajo_ , Keith starts talking again, breathing into his ear, voice sultry as hell, like he’s working the Saturday night special at a cabaret.

“It’s _good_ , isn’t it Lance?” Lance’s head has shifted a little bit, and the fucker is rubbing his dick up against his cheek, taking full advantage of the way Lance’s face is pushed up against his crotch.

“Sometimes, when Shiro eats me out, I cum without anything even touching my dick… maybe you’re the same?”

Lance is pretty sure he’s crying. Kind of feels like his soul is trying to leave through his pores.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance sobs, as Shiro traces the inside of his rim, only to dive back in again, and _holy fuck_ were those sounds obscene. Lance can feel the saliva slipping down his perineum and it should be so fucking gross but it _isn’t_ . He wants nothing more than to rut up against the gorgeous dude who’s dick is currently thrusting up against the side of his face. Or his bed. Hell, the fucking coffee table would probably work at this point. He just needs _something_ . But Shiro’s holding onto his hips hard as hell, holds him fast and tight while he shoves his tongue into Lance again and again and _again_ and oh shit, Keith’s question is about to be answered, Lance is gonna come _untouched_ —

Shiro grabs the base of Lance’s dick and squeezes, pulls away from his ass all together. And Lance turns his head and _sobs_ into Keith’s lower belly.

“Aw,” coos Keith, running his hand through Lance’s hair, “poor baby just wants some dick. Shiro, stop teasing him.” And all Lance can think right then is wow, Keith’s really warmed up to him since he stuck his dick halfway down Lance’s throat.

The bastard’s voice is perfectly even when he speaks, like he didn’t just eat Lance out eight ways to Sunday and Monday.

“Sorry babe,” he says, breath tickling Lance’s rim, “I saw this cute little hole and I just couldn’t help myself.”

Shiro tugs at his rim with a finger before he slips it inside of him as easy as anything. He starts thrusting, has Lance groaning into Keith’s dick. Lance feels Shiro slip another finger into him. Lance is soft from Shiro eating him out, and he’s fingered himself before (his record is four), but two of the motherfucker’s fingers already feel thicker than three of his own, and the thought has him biting his lip. He can only imagine what his _dick’s_ gonna feel like… Shiro’s thrusting into him, and Lance, oh _fuck_ he can’t help it, Lance is rocking back against the bastard’s hand, chasing the teasing fullness. Then Shiro _curls_ down towards Lance’s belly button, and Lance moans loud.

“Oh _fuuuck_.”

Shiro chuckles. “Does my pretty boy like that?” He keeps massaging Lance’s prostate, hits it on every other thrust, and Lance _hates_ it because all he really wants is for Shiro to grind down on it with his thick ass fingers, make him make even more of a mess of his sheets, but he also kind of _loves_ it because Lance likes when people are mean to him in bed. Ask anyone who’s ever fucked him before. What can he say, he’s a masochist—what else could possibly account for his friendship with Pidge?

Shiro adds another finger and Lance can feel himself tensing, has to breathe through it, bear down on the thick fingers stretching him, make himself relax. Shiro’s giving it to him slow, deliberate, hitting his prostate on every other _other_ thrust in now, and when he feels Shiro circling a fourth finger around his rim, he feels his impatience running hot up his spine.

“ _Fuck_ Shiro! _Stop it_ ,” he sobs, “I’ve taken a dick before!”

Shiro hums low in his throat, and it’s so hot that Lance could cry. “But you’ve never taken _my_ dick before, baby. Need to make sure you’re ready.”

But even as he’s saying this, Lance feels Shiro slip his fingers out.

Lance hears a clicking sound that can only be a lube bottle opening, and Keith slips a hand into his hair to force him to look up at him. _Fuck_ he’s pretty, cheeks even redder than before, lips even smoother with spit, like he’d been biting on them while he’d watched Shiro fuck Lance on his fingers.

Keith looks down at him and says, “we’re gonna fuck you now, Lance.”

Lance feels Shiro’s dick at his entrance then, tip hot against his rim. And then he’s _pushing in_ unyieldingly. From the way that Shiro had been teasing him before, Lance didn’t expect the man to act any differently when he was stretching him open with his dick. He thought that he’d thrust in shallowly, dip a little bit of that _fuck_ , that thick, _gorgeous_ cock into him. Rock back, then forth, back then forth until Lance was a drooling, begging mess. But this, oh _this_ relentless, single-minded push has Lance seeing all the stars and their damn planets. He can feel every single inch of Shiro’s dick as it slides into him, and it’s like Shiro just keeps _going_.

“ _Fuck_ , how much of you _is there_ ? _OhmyGod, mmm…_ ”

Shiro chuckles low. “You can take me.”

Lance goes to close his eyes, and he thinks he hears Keith make a noise of disapproval, but he can’t be sure. Keith has such a deep, sexy rasp that pretty much anything that comes out of his mouth in this context makes him whimper.

“Open your eyes, Lance,” he rasps, and Lance can’t help it, he obeys. “Mmm,” Keith hums, and Lance feels so damn full but Shiro’s _still sliding in_ , “that’s it, baby. Let him in… I know how it feels, you know.” Keith’s biting his lip again, and Lance wants to kiss him, even though he’s pretty sure that at this point, he wouldn’t be able to do much except keep his mouth open for Keith to lick into it, “Shiro’s so _big_ that when he’s sliding in, it feels like there’s no way he’s gonna fit. Until he _does_ …” Shiro bottoms out just then, and Lance has to wonder if these fuckers had choreographed this. And then he’s thinking of them, in bed somewhere with each other, planning out _just_ how they’re going to pin him down, use him, _fuck him_ and he lets out a high little whine that has Shiro leaning forward, whispering a strained _fuck_ into the crook of his neck.

When Shiro leans forward, his dick pushes up against Lance’s prostate, and _mierda_ , he’s gonna cum again.

“You’re so fucking _tight_.”

Shiro reaches around and wraps a hand around his throat, nudges that soft spot right where Lance’s jaw ends with his thumb and _holy fuck his hand is big enough to do that_. And then he’s pulling out, and that travelling fullness makes Lance bite down on his lip in expectation. He waits for Shiro to come back in, and he doesn’t have to wait long.

So Shiro’s fucking him, and Lance doesn’t even _try_ to brace himself on his hands. Shiro let’s go of his jaw. Then his cheek’s on Keith’s thigh, and he’s breathing warm air against Keith’s dick while his mouth’s just hanging open. He can feel Shiro’s rough hands on his hips, pulling him back onto his dick while Lance is biting his lip, doing his level best not to scream. But _God_ it feels so fucking _good_ , that unbelievable stretch, the feeling of Shiro’s hard stomach whenever it glances off Lance’s back. For some time all Lance knows is Shiro. Shiro breathing hard at his back, Shiro digging his big hands into his hips, running his palms up and down his stomach, pinching his nipples, avoiding his cock, Shiro’s dick splitting him open.

But then Keith reminds him _exactly_ how close his face is to his dick.

“Can you take it, baby?” Keith wonders out loud, pulling gently on Lance’s hair, grabbing his dick to bring it to Lance’s mouth.

At that, Shiro pulls out _so slow, so steady_ , and slams back in so hard Lance yelps.

“He can take it,” Shiro answers for him. He’s leaning in now, till he’s draped over Lance’s back, his cheek up against Lance’s temple.

“He can take _anything_.”

He pulls out slow and slams in hard again, and when Lance’s mouth falls open with the natural shock that comes with having somebody hit your prostate with _that level of fucking accuracy_ , Keith, the sneaky bastard, slips his cock in.

They’re fucking him at both ends. They fall into a rhythm that makes the bottom of Lance’s stomach feel hot, makes tears collect inside that reservoir right behind his eyes, makes him think _fuck, I’m about to have the best damn death ever._ He should have expected that Keith and Shiro would be so synchronized, even in this. When Keith’s fucking into his mouth, Shiro’s pulling out of his ass, and when Shiro’s sliding home, Keith’s slipping that dick over his tongue till his lips are the only thing clinging to that leaking tip. _Fuck_ , he wants to come, he wants to come—

“You’re amazing, baby,” Shiro’s rasping into his ear now, voice so deep Lance thinks his ribs are shaking with it. “So pretty, so good for us. How do you feel with my dick inside you? With Keith down your throat? Look up, baby. He’s about to come, beautiful, ‘cause of _you_. Look up. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

Lance looks up and wishes he hadn’t. He almost comes on the spot but it’s like Shiro anticipated it. It’s like he fully expected that to be Lance’s reaction to seeing Keith’s eyes closed in rapture, red red lips open in a quiet _oh_ while his eyebrows knit together. Shiro wraps a firm hand around Lance’s dick, and _fuck_ Lance is gonna kill this motherfucker if his dick doesn’t kill Lance first.

And _shit_ , Keith is babbling.

“So good Lance, so _good_ , _fuck_ .” He cums in Lance’s mouth, down Lance’s throat, and Lance has to close his eyes against Keith’s encouragements to _swallow it all, babe_. That saltiness, that bitter tang, sits with him for a little while.

Keith’s running his fingers through Lance’s damp hair while he’s coming down from his orgasm, and Lance doesn’t realize that Shiro’s slowed down until he speeds up again.

And Lance is begging now.

“Shiro, _Shiro,_ let me come. _Please_ , I’ve been _so good!”_

Shiro, with one hand still wrapped tight around Lance’s dick, says,

“I know baby,” he’s starting to sound winded, and all Lance can hear is the sound of Shiro’s strong thighs hitting the skin of his ass as Shiro pounds into him. “I know, but not yet, _not yet_.”

Lance feels the flash of warmth when Shiro cums inside him, and he _sobs_. Shiro’s panting over him now, trying to catch his breath when he says,

“Keith wants a turn.”

And Lance is thinking _what the unadulterated fuck_ , this kid just came? But sure enough, when Lance looks up, Keith’s hard again. Hard like he hadn’t just shot down Lance’s throat, forced him to take it down.

“Yeah, baby,” Keith echoes, “Keith wants a turn.”

Shiro slides out and climbs off of him, and Lance can feel the annoying emptiness that follows. Before Shiro’s cum has too much of a chance to leak out of him, Keith’s pulling him up into his lap. His back is up against Keith’s chest now, and he groans as Keith pulls his legs apart, makes sure they’re outside of his own thighs. Keith braces his feet against the bed, and slips two fingers into Lance’s soft, pliant hole, just to feel.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance moans, still sensitive.

“Shiro left you so wet for me.” Lance can fucking _hear_ the bastard smirking.

Shiro, who was wiping off his spent dick right next to them, comes up and slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth, and Lance closes his eyes, like that’ll help him drown out the hot, wet sounds.

“Make him come,” Shiro growls low, and it’s a fucking order.

“You hear that, beautiful?” Keith whispers hot against Lance’s ear, wraps an arm around his stomach to pull Lance tighter against his chest. “I’m gonna make you come on my dick.”

And Keith slides in. Sure, Shiro’s dick stretched Lance plenty, but it didn’t stretch him _out_ , and he can still feel his hole clenching around Keith’s cock. The oversensitivity makes every single sensation he’s feeling louder, and Lance feels like he’s living in technicolor right about now. His heartbeat’s a scream inside his chest, and Shiro’s perfect face is so bright, so fucking pretty that Lance feels like he could die.

Keith pulls back and thrusts, bounces Lance on his dick. Shiro alternated between slow tempos and quick ones, but Keith’s giving Lance none of that sympathy. His thrusts are rough and deliberate, fast while he keeps Lance tight against his chest, unable to move on his own. _Fuck_ Lance doesn’t even have enough leverage to meet him thrust for thrust; he’s just taking it, and Keith is whispering filth in his ear the whole damn time.

“You’re so wet, so hot inside, _fuck_. Shiro has such good taste.”

“ _Please_ ,” Lance croaks, and his plea’s punctuated by an extra hard thrust that sends Keith’s dick right up against his prostate.

“What was that, baby?” Shiro teases, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck.

“I want—” Lance starts.

“I know what you need,” Shiro tells him, before he opens Lance’s mouth up to let his own tongue in. Shiro wraps his hand around Lance’s dick again, except this time, he moves it, he fucking _moves it_. Slides it up and down Lance’s shaft, catches Keith’s rhythm so that the dick inside him and the hand around him fall into the filthiest damn pattern known to man. He feels it when Keith comes inside him, when Keith leaves him even wetter than before.

A few more slides of that huge hand, and Lance is coming, coming harder than he ever has in his life, G.I. Joe porn be damned. He’s crying while Shiro’s jerking him through it, and he swears he loses his hearing for a second.

When he comes to, Keith and Shiro are telling him how wonderful he did, how good he was for them. Keith slips out of him, and Shiro, the giant teddy bear, already has a warm, wet washcloth ready. Lance has no fucking clue where he got that, or how he got it so fast, but he doesn’t really care all that much when Shiro’s wiping down his thighs. Keith lays down on the bed, and pulls Lance to him, peppers his cheeks, his temples, his nose with kisses while Shiro takes another damp rag to wipe Lance’s own come from his stomach. He does what he can for the cum dripping out of Lance’s hole, but it’s gonna be the shower’s problem.

Keith turns Lance’s face to his own. “Don’t ever say we don’t do shit for you.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Oh _please_ , you guys had just as much fun with this as I did.”

Shiro slips into bed with them, right behind Lance. He chuckles low.

“You got me there.”

“I just don’t get why I had to be casted as the landlord’s asshole boyfriend.”

Lance can feel his eyes slipping closed, feels sleep coming for him. But nothing, and he means _nothing_ , could ever stop him from fucking with Keith.

“Who else would you have been cast as, babe?”

“Uh, how about, the _landlord_?”

“Mmm,” Lance moans, “but you play the emo dick so _good_. You’ve had so much practice.”

Keith makes an indignant noise. “Mmhmm, right. We’ll see if you’re so damn clever when you wake up horny as fuck in the middle of the night.”

“That was one time!”

Shiro chimes in. “It wasn’t one time, Lance.”

Lance squawks like he’s offended. “Who’s side are you on Takashi?!”

Shiro kisses the back of his neck, says, “mmm I don’t take sides. Too dangerous with you two.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Keith agrees, voice low.

Even while he’s drifting off, Lance can feel the air around them getting heavy again. So he says,

“If you fuck Keith while I’m asleep and I don’t get to watch, Shiro, I _swear to God_ you’re both waking up bald tomorrow.”

He’s slipping into sleep with a noncommittal noise from Keith, and a quiet laugh from Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow - the comments for this story have been so damn sweet, thank you💕💕💕 i've read them all and i love them all


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro's cute boyfriends always want to fuck him, and other (non)problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came out like a sneeze

There are few things more flattering than being in a relationship with someone who wants to fuck you 25/8, little else that makes your blood fucking sing. And Lance? Well, Lance turns Shiro’s blood into a five-octave powerhouse, makes his ego hit a springboard and vault.

Shiro met him in this genetics class sophomore year and Christ, that class made him wanna take shots of bleach, but Lance was a damn _vision_ of a vision Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10 a.m. High cheekbones, full lips, Prince Eric hair, and eyes so bright it was like all the stars in the sky had swallowed each other, and Shiro was the only one who’d noticed what they’d made. By then Shiro’d already promised himself he was gonna lay off Keith.

Ah, Keith. There was this MMA studio a few blocks from Shiro’s house, and he used to always practice there after school. It’s not like Shiro had, or has, any pent-up rage or anything, so tell Jerry Springer he can grab one of those folding chairs from his front stage and sit the fuck back down. Shiro just loves technique, strategy, movement, adrenaline. And MMA was perfect for all those things, like a thirsty music market to a handpicked girl group.

Shit, it was like Simon Cowell was behind the whole damn thing—strategy fell into technique fell into movement fell into adrenaline. They hooked into each other, found grooves on one another’s surfaces and stayed like that until they found some place they could live, comfortably, peacefully—MMA was the Manhattan loft, the Chicago bungalow, the Mediterranean Miami two-story. So yeah, no pent-up rage as a motivator. Anger didn’t run Shiro into that studio on 3rd.

But it sure as shit ran Keith. Shiro met him on a Friday when he was a junior in highschool. He remembers because he’d just come out of bio lab, and his dissection that day had left him wishing he didn’t have hands. When Shiro walked in, there was this kid with Jon Snow hair in the corner, knuckles taped, beating the sandbag in front of him like it stole his wallet, kicked him in the dick, and replaced all the music in his phone with Limp Bizkit albums.

And if Shiro hadn’t have noticed Keith hitting his punching bag like he was a 1980s Colombian drug lord and the bag was a snitch, he would’ve noticed the kid anyway. He was gorgeous. Long black hair, pretty gemstone eyes, thick lashes, toned arms. And those lips— huh. Maybe Shiro has a thing for full lips… But look, the point is, Keith was cute as shit, and pretty much as soon as Shiro saw him, he was planning on asking the kid out to a movie or something after class.

The class broke to spar, and Shiro, just by sheer luck and with nothing to do with any concerted manipulative effort, ahem, wound up with Keith as a sparring partner. The kid was unrefined, yeah, but he had talent. Almost knocked Shiro on his ass more times than he really wanted to admit. Keith blushed every time Shiro touched him, but there was still something in his face that grabbed Shiro by the shoulders and held him off, pushed against him until Shiro could feel something that tasted like guilt walking around the back of his throat.

When they broke after that, Shiro went over to grab his water bottle, and he caught Keith looking over at him. And Shiro would’ve jumped on that little moment like he was stunt-doubling in a Van Halen music video, would’ve broken through that opening like he was the fucking Kool-Aid man on meth. But he didn’t want to take advantage. Because that day, every time Shiro looked at Keith it was like the kid was putting up storm shutters inside himself, waiting, just _waiting_ , for the rest of the world to throw itself against his windows at 150 miles per hour. Kid was looking through his curtains for a Cat 5 hurricane.

So Shiro didn’t ask him out on a date. He became friends with Keith. The kid was standoffish at first, but Shiro’s junior class voted him Most Likely to Survive _Game of Thrones_ and goddammit, that _meant_ something. Well _technically_ the whole title was “Most Likely to Survive _Game of Thrones_ through sheer luck alone,” but fuck if he could survive Cersei then he could live through Keith.

Keith was a sophomore. He was from Maywood, the town over. And sometimes he would make these moony eyes at Shiro. In class, after class, when they’d hang out at the movies or Starbucks or, when they got closer, Shiro’s house. Didn’t matter. When he thought Shiro wouldn’t notice he’d look at him with these eyes that Shiro’s pretty sure the animators at Pixar would sell their left nut or tit for.

Shiny, pretty, full of anticipation. And Shiro would want to… _God_ , he would want to. Keith wasn’t hiding his interest much before, and as they got closer he pretty much threw out all pretense. But then the shutters would go back up and Shiro would be reassured that he was doing the right thing.

Shiro went to college a few cities over, and Keith got into the same one the next year. They were still friends but holy shit was it hard. You  can’t really ever be friends with somebody you want to fu- have a loving, fulfilling romantic relationship with. Okay, but seriously—Shiro had _feelings_ , but Keith had abandonment trauma, emotional vulnerability, so many other things going on that Shiro couldn’t help but feel like he’d be exploiting them if he… Sooo he _didn’t_. Bottle up your feelings, kids. That always works. Not like they’re gonna froth and burst like the shit coming out of a cheap third grade baking soda volcano.

So Shiro was still laying off Keith when he saw Lance. Lance always sat somewhere in the middle rows, and Shiro would often sit a few seats behind him. At first Shiro sat there just because. After he noticed Lance, well, he sat there… ahem, _just because_ . A few times, in class, he’d catch Lance looking over at him. One time, when Shiro caught him, Lance turned back around in his seat so fast that he knocked his laptop over and it hit the poor kid in front of him in the head.

Lance’s face turned into Hellboy concept art. Kid was _red_. Holy shit, Shiro has no idea how Lance managed to sit through that lecture after that. Sometimes Lance will bring that day up now, and Shiro will literally fall out of whatever seat he’s in, laughing. One time he was laughing so hard he fell down the stairs in their dorm. Well, now that he thinks about it, that was probably pre-meditated on Lance’s part, that evil little twink.

A few weeks after the whole laptop thing, Shiro was at office hours, trying to figure out some heredity problem on his p-set, and Lance came up to him. Asked him about some other question because the professor and all the teaching assistants were busy helping other people (honestly if this many people are confused, something wasn’t taught right in the first place, in Shiro’s lowly undergraduate opinion). Shiro helped him figure it out, and when Lance got it, he smiled so big it made Shiro wanna grin too.

So Shiro was gonna ask him out to a movie… but get this—Keith and Lance knew each other. Shiro saw them studying together in the library once. And, wait for it, they were friends. Shiro saw them playing cornhole in the quad. Like, close friends. One time, Shiro saw Keith dragging drunk Lance back to his room from a party. Shiro offered to help. And when they got to Lance’s room, Shiro’s crushing ass realized that it was also _Keith’s_ room. They were roommates, goddammit. Aaaand— _finish him_ —Lance’s older sister, Allura, was Keith’s scholarship mentor.

When Keith mentioned Allura’s last name to him, he figured _de las Casas_ was a common enough last name. Honestly, he figured it would’ve been a little racist of him to assume that they were related. But holy shit, they _were_ related. They were _very_ related, because one Tuesday afternoon, when Shiro and Lance were studying for their genetics midterm in one of the campus common rooms, Lance’s phone started ringing. He said _hold on, it’s my sister_ .

Shiro’s first thought was _people still talk on the phone?_ His second one was _why, my Lord God, do you keep jockin my style like this_ because Lance answered the phone like this: “Allura, what the fuck? Who _calls_ anymore?” Fucking **_fatality_ **.

When Shiro helped Keith bring Lance back to their room, Shiro didn’t give him any indication that he knew Lance. All three of them didn’t meet, completely sober, until the week before finals, when Shiro was walking through the library and Lance hailed him over, like Shiro was a New York taxi (you know, before Uber and Lyft). And cue the awkwardness, holy shit. Bring in Michael Cera and whoever directed Juno, because they could’ve spent _hours_ mining that moment for discomfort.

Lance was smiling big, ears pink. Keith was looking between him and Shiro, a look on his face that really drew the line between Daria and a scowling Rapunzel. And Shiro… well, Shiro was really trying to figure out what the protocol was for talking to two cute guys, both of whom liked you but neither of whom you could have, at the same time in a quiet study space without screaming until the librarian put you in a headlock and dragged you out. And honestly, Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. McAlister _could_ haul him outta here bodily. Lady had strong-looking hands.

Cue the months of pining. Bring in the YA authors, anyone who’s ever directed a romance before. Express ship Nicholas Sparks to that fucking campus because dude would’ve jizzed himself if he could’ve seen Shiro, Keith, and Lance then. The pining, the longing looks, the quiet midnight torture while they were all laying in their beds separately. Oh God, it was unbelievable.

Keith and Lance put an end to it a few months in. Not Shiro. Shiro was a fucking chickenshit, he’s willing to admit that much. Keith told Shiro to come to his room. Lance was there. Keith did most of the talking at first and Shiro was amazed, because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Keith talk that long before. And with so much emotion, so much feeling roiling around inside every single thing he said. Told Shiro he and Lance had talked. Told him he liked Shiro and Lance liked Shiro and they knew he liked them both. Told him to quit the bullshit.

And Shiro? Well, Shiro quit the bullshit.

No one fucked that night, but after that… well, they were all horny college kids. But Lance… Lance’s sex drive would make a veteran brothel worker blush. Doctors would probably think he’s a medical anomaly. He’s the fucking Energizer Bunny with an ass that won’t quit, an ass that puts in overtime. Shiro doesn’t actually think he could handle him on his own. What a problem to have, right?

After the first night they were all together, with an adorable, slightly awkward, virgin Lance holding Keith’s hand while Shiro stretched him with his fingers, while Shiro entered him, all bets were off. Void all prior expectations, because Lance would come back to his own room after class, where Keith and Shiro would often be studying, and climb into whoever’s lap was available. Kiss their jaw, grind into their stomach and moan all sweet until whoever it was, god help him, held him down and fucked him.

Lance would always tone it down around midterm and finals season, because nobody wanted the nut to no degree ratio to be 1:1. But outside of that? Lance did shit only Prince would ever have the balls to write about. _Write about_ , not sing about. The High Priest of Pop must’ve had _some_ shame. Lance, Shiro and Keith were both beginning to think, had none.

One time, Lance ambushed Keith while Keith was walking out of one of the accessibility stalls in the bathroom near one of the dining halls. Held him against the door and sucked his dick. Keith texted Shiro after that, something like _he’s a fucking menace_.

Shiro replied with, _you came, right?_ Just to mess with him.

A couple minutes later, Keith called him.

“Hello?”

“Fuck you.”

And Lance is so _expressive_. Kid could never ever play poker. You can tell when he’s embarrassed, when he’s happy, when he’s sad, when he’s about to say some dumb shit, when he’s annoyed, when some poor mother fucker is about to get dragged to Mars and back.

And you can also tell how good it feels when you slide your fingers into him. When you brace yourself on one hand, hang over him so you can watch his face when you move up to two, when you move up to three. The little furrow between his eyebrows, the way his eyes tear up when you hit his prostate. How his mouth falls open when you slide your dick into him, because he likes the fucking stretch.

Lance—expressive, in bed, and out of bed. Keith—not so much the first one. Outside of those moments when Keith looks at Shiro with his big Disney eyes, kid’s face is impenetrable. Unreadable, like a Russian politician on trial, like the script for Glitter. Shiro’s known the kid a while, so he knows what the stiff, tense shoulders mean—uncomfortable, embarrassed, don’t touch me. He knows what the twitch of the bottom lip means—emotionally raw right now, hug me. The raised eyebrow—hold me up against the closest wall and fuck me into it.

But because Keith’s so hard to read in regular situations, watching his face while they’re fucking has to be one of the most gratifying things Shiro has ever experienced. Right up there with watching Lance’s beautiful ass bounce when he fucks him on his hands and knees and watching the signs go up for McDonald’s Shamrock shake in March. Breaking that stoicism with his dick is a heady fucking feeling.

So when Shiro wakes up in the middle of the night on Lance’s bed (two twins that Lance combined; “Peasants sleep on twin beds, ‘Kashi. I’m more like a manservant”), fresh off a wonderfully vivid dream about Lance’s little roleplay from before, he’s hard instantly. Because Keith is propped up on his hands, leaning over him with lidded eyes. It’s dark, but the moon’s coming in pretty strong through the window, the white light hugs everything in the room. Lance’s ACDC poster on the wall opposite the mega-twin, his Mariah Carey CDs on his dresser (“I wanna listen to the queen like god intended!”), Keith’s tight, lean body.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Keith whispers. Bites his bottom lip.

“Keith, I like my hair.”

“Mmm I like it too.”

“Then don’t force Lance’s hand. Have some mercy.”

“I don’t _just_ like you for your hair.”

“Oh?”

Keith nods, slips his hand into Shiro’s briefs and wraps a warm hand around his dick. Shiro breathes out slow.

Keith shrugs. “I tried waking him up. You know how heavy he sleeps. You could make the kid do yoga and he wouldn’t notice.”

Shiro smiles, bites his lip when Keith strokes the length of him.

“To be fair, we _did_ tire him out.”

Keith hums in agreement. “We did. But not me. I’m awake as shit.”

Keith brings him out of his briefs, leans over so he’s partially on top of Shiro now. Presses his head into Shiro’s shoulder while he works him with his hand.

“And I had this _dream_ ,” he’s saying. Shiro’s getting harder and harder. “You were inside me, and I had to be quiet because we didn’t want to wake up the people in the hall. But it was so fucking hard, Shiro. You know why? Because you were fucking me so _good_ , oh my god. You had to put a hand over my mouth, and then you started going even harder. Then Lance came in, and you know what he started doing? He started jerking off to us, to you, to me, to you _inside_ me. _God_ , he was gorgeous. You were—”

Shiro rolls them over, towards the window and away from Lance. Yeah, the kid’s a heavy sleeper, but a hundred-plus pounds of nearly solid muscle landing on your chest would probably wake most people up, deep REM be damned.

Keith’s hand slips out of his briefs and he’s missing it already. Now he’s kissing him, no teasing. Shiro slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth, finds Keith’s tongue, strokes it until Keith’s moaning underneath him. Shiro pulls away. Looks down at Keith opening his eyes. His lashes are wet and his eyes are sparkling with the weak light, fuck. His lips are strawberries, _fuck_.

He braces a hand on either side of Keith’s head.

“Remember, baby?” Shiro whispers, his voice rough in his chest. “You gotta be quiet.”

Shiro notices that he has a thigh between Keith’s legs when Keith starts grinding on it. Shiro feels his hard dick through his briefs.

Shiro slips a hand into Keith’s hair, brings his lips to Keith’s ear.

“Can you be good for me?”

“ _Mhmm_.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes God Shiro, just—_ ”

Shiro looks up, searches the dim room for some lube. Starts to move off the bed to look properly when his foot hits something, wedged between the bed and the wall.

He grabs the bottle, puts it down next to Keith’s head. He pulls off Keith’s briefs, catches him chewing his lip and gets harder. Right next to them, Lance is sleeping like the dead, and the soft sound of his breathing makes Shiro leak even more precome into the front of his boxers, because he’s a fucking perv. Just the _thought_ of Lance sleeping soundly while he’s nailing Keith right next to him— Shiro guesses Lance isn’t the only one with kinks around here.

He’s not getting off on the thrill of being caught by someone he doesn’t wanna get caught by. Polyamorous relationship, remember? He’s fucking head over heels for Lance too. It’s just the _idea_ of having somebody completely oblivious to this that’s got him hard and aching in his boxers.

Shiro’s kneeling between Keith’s legs now, and Keith is a fucking view in front of him. Pert pink nipples, tight taut stomach, gorgeous pale dick, hard and leaking. Shiro grabs one of Keith’s legs by the back of the knee, pushes it into his chest so he can get a good look at his hole. It’s tiny, pretty and pink against the dim light. It twitches with every single one of Keith’s heavy breaths. Shiro’s like 80% sure that Lance is the bottom-est bottom that ever bottomed.

Not to say that Lance doesn’t top them, because he sure as hell does, and he’s grown to be fucking excellent at it. But the kid absolutely _adores_ getting fucked. Keith’s less vocal about his preferences, but Shiro and Lance both know that he likes it a lot too, maybe almost as much as Lance does. Keith’s just so damn _sensitive_ everywhere. His collarbones, behind his ears, his stomach. Shiro spent a whole hour one Saturday afternoon just sucking bruises into the inside of Keith’s thighs. Kid almost came like three times. Shiro had to wrap a hand around his dick to keep him from doing it. Shiro’s never seen anything like it.

He grabs the lube from beside Keith’s head and squirts some onto his hand. He brings a finger to Keith’s tight little hole. Lance fucked Keith yesterday while Shiro was in lab (told him all about it too, when he got out), so Shiro doesn’t meet much resistance. Keith still inhales sharply. The first few times they fucked, Shiro thought it was because it hurt. Now he knows better.

He slides that finger in as far as it’ll go. Slides it back out, just for kicks. Shiro knows Keith can handle much _much_ more than this. He moves up to two, slips both in as far as they’ll go. God, Keith and Lance are always so hot inside, so fucking warm. Pre-cum’s dripping out of Shiro’s dick like rain at this point. Look out for showers in the northwest, holy shit.

Then Keith reaches a hand down between his legs, grabs Shiro’s wrist, the wrist of the hand inside him.

“What is it, baby?” Shiro murmurs, his fingers stilling. “Slower?”

They had to work at this pretty hard, when they got together. The communication thing. Two people in a relationship is personality enough to handle, but three? Much, much dirtier version of Three’s Company, but the point still stands—three people’s a lot of feelings to manage, and keeping things quiet doesn’t make it any easier. And Keith knew that. Knows that. So he works at it, but it’s still hard. Whether they were talking about telling the people in their lives about their relationship, or whether they’re talking about sex stuff.

Keith’s cheeks are pink. Lips so fucking red. Delectable. He shakes his head.

“I-I want… I want to… to help.”

Shiro bites his bottom lip and groans when he realizes what Keith means. He surges forward, slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth and kisses him until Keith’s writhing on his still fingers. How’d he get so fucking lucky with these two?

There’s enough lube on Shiro’s fingers and around Keith’s rim, so Keith just sucks on his pointer finger for a little while while Shiro watches him and tries his hardest not to think about coming. Then, he slips that finger inside himself, right next to Shiro’s. Then, like that’s not enough, he slips another one in. Doesn’t even bother to slick it up with spit this time. _God_. The sight of Keith’s hole, stretched around two of Shiro’s fingers and two of his own, is gonna be on his formal list of Shit to Jerk Off To for the rest of his natural born life.

Shiro’s fucking him with his fingers, and Keith picks up their rhythm, follows Shiro to his prostate. He _mewls_.

Shiro drops to his forearm so he’s right next to Keith’s ear.

“Feel good, baby? You like my fingers?”

“ _Mmm_.”

“Those aren’t words, beautiful.”

“ _Yes_.”

Shiro feels Keith’s two fingers curl inside himself, towards his bellybutton, towards his prostate. So Shiro curls his fingers the other way, towards his tailbone.

“ _Fuuuuck_ ,” Keith hisses. Shiro grins into his neck.

“That stretch enough for you, beautiful?”

“N-no, _no, fuck_.”

“Tell me what you want, then.”

“Your dick. _Fuck_ , Shiro, _fuck me_. Fuck me like you fucked Lance—”

Shiro pulls down his briefs, doesn’t even have the presence of mind to even _consider_ taking them off. He grabs the lube from its spot right next to Keith’s elbow, slicks up his dick. Tries to stroke himself as little as possible cause he _knows_ he’s just on the cusp of coming. He’s raging against the dying of the light here people.

Shiro watches as Keith wraps his arms around his knees, brings his legs to his chest to expose his hole, soft, wet with lube. Keith wasn’t a virgin when they all got together (Shiro tries to pretend it doesn’t make him jealous; it works sometimes. Let’s give it like a 65%, like a Rotten Tomatoes’ _Fresh_ rating), but he was nowhere near this bold. He used to only want to be fucked on his hands and knees, or on his side, with his face facing away from them, till one day after finals and right before last winter break, Lance showed him the merits of missionary.

Shiro brings his tip to Keith’s hole, and it’s so hot and slick oh _fuck_. He slides in, meets a little resistance. Keith closes his eyes, bites his lip, and breathes through it, bears down on Shiro’s dick. Lets him in.

“ _Good boy_ ,” Shiro breathes as he sinks in all the way.

Shiro replaces Keith’s hands behind his knees with his own, holds Keith open while he pulls out _so so so slow_ and snaps his hips forward, fucks into him. Keith whimpers. Shiro pulls out, rolls his hips into another thrust, faster this time. Rougher, _harder_ this time.

And then he’s going. Grip tight on the meat behind Keith’s knees, thrusting faster and faster. Attention torn between Keith’s open mouth and furrowed brows, and the sight of his dick disappearing into Keith’s tight heat. He goes even faster, and Keith starts whimpering high, loud.

After Lance knocked down some of his walls of inhibition last winter, he and Shiro quickly realized that Keith wasn’t actually as quiet in bed as they’d thought. He was actually pretty loud. Not as loud as Lance could get, but Keith could sure as hell wake up some neighbors, if he was really into it.

So Shiro leans forward, keeps up his pace. God, Keith feels so fucking _good_ inside. Only slows down to whisper in Keith’s ear,

“Baby? You can be quiet, right?”

“ _Ah, fuck_.”

“Need some help?”

When he pulls up, stills with his dick completely buried inside Keith, his hips flush against his ass, Keith’s face is completely flushed. Black hair spilled over the pillows like a quiet night. Keith nods.

So Shiro leans forward again, chest to chest with Keith. Puts a hand over his mouth, and keeps fucking him. He has to sacrifice his long strokes for this, but _god_ is it worth it. Watching Keith’s beautiful flushed face with his big hand over his mouth, watching his eyes roll back every time Shiro rolls into his prostate.

“There’s a good boy, _fuck_. So quiet for me, so tight...”

“ _Mmm_ ,” Keith moans behind his hand, and damn it all to Dante’s hell if that isn’t hot as _shit_.

Shiro pulls his hand away and pulls out so he can roll him over, onto his stomach. He’s putting Keith onto his hands and knees when he gets an idea. Hell, if Lance is gonna slit his throat, he might as well. Death is death. There’s no such thing as Super Death.

He leans forward.

“Babe, I have an idea?”

Keith looks over at Lance, and then looks back at Shiro, face flushed, just round the corner from annoyed.

“You _really_ have a death wish, don’t you?”

He gives Keith’s ass a playful slap, and Keith yelps then moans.

“This is your fault, remember? _Who_ woke me up begging for dick in the middle of the night?”

“Wasn’t _begging_. What’s your stupid fucking idea so I can get you back inside me?”

“Wanna fuck you on top of him. See if he wakes up.”

“Oh my God. Oh my _God_ , you are _such_ a perv.”

That’s what he’s saying but Keith’s crawling over to Lance now, rolling him over from his side so he’s on his back. Keith waits a moment, waits to see if that’ll wake him up, even though both he and Shiro are pretty sure it won’t.

Lance looks so peaceful, lashes like canopies over his cheeks, mouth just a little open. Breaths steady. He’s in the tiniest little shorts Shiro’s ever seen. Shiro’s pretty sure they’re not even briefs. He smells good from his shower, something like cucumber-jasmine.

Keith arranges Lance’s arms so they’re stretched out above his head, a little bent at the elbows cause the megatwin’s only so long. He puts his knees on either side of Lance’s thighs, and Shiro watches as he braces himself so his face is right above Lance’s.

Shiro shuffles up behind him and slips back inside, gets a pleased _mmm_ in return. Shiro grabs Keith’s hips, and after a deep, self-indulgent grind that drags a broken moan out of Keith, reclaims his pace from before.

He’s fucking hard and fast into Keith, and now he has _three_ things to divide his attention between—Keith’s gorgeous back, Lance’s soft, pretty sleeping face, and his dick splitting Keith’s tight hole. He’s hooked on that last one right now.

Keith takes him so fucking well. The thought that his dick could fit inside something so snug, something so tight… into skinny Lance, into lean Keith… It was just one of the many, many things about this relationship that keeps him hard at night.

He pulls out slow, fixated on Keith’s rim stretching around him. Thrusts in even slower, and Keith lets out this loud, tortured moan that he’s _preeeetty_ sure whoever’s on the other side of this wall can hear if they’re awake.

And would you look at that, Lance starts stirring. His blinks his eyes open, and it takes him a little while to absorb what’s happening. Holy shit, that’s what it takes to wake Lance up, Shiro guesses. No car horns, no phone alarms, no Nutribullets (like Pidge tried once). Keith moaning like a pornstar right on top of him while he gets fucked.

“Keith?” Lance says, groggy, “What are you—?”

He looks up at Shiro. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my _multiracial god_ . Are you guys _fucking serious_ …” Lance scrambles to get a hand into his shorts, and Shiro starts thrusting into Keith again.

“Thought you… didn’t want to be left out?” Shiro says.

Lance is biting his lip, stroking himself. “One hundred percent participation, Takashi. No boyfriend left behind, those are the rules _ohfuckmmm—_ ”

Keith makes Lance forget whatever he was about to say. Keith presses up against Lance so they’re chest to chest, starts mouthing at his neck. Shiro starts fucking him so hard, so fast that he can hear his gorgeous ass hitting his thighs. Shiro notices Keith move, and watches him wrap a hand around his own dick, start stroking himself. It’s an abrupt, aggressive rhythm, and Shiro knows Keith’s about to come. Knows he is, too. He can feel that warmth in the bottom of his stomach. Starts going faster. Starts saying random shit.

“Oh my God, so good, _so fucking good_ . Where do you want my come, baby? _Where_?”

Keith’s panting hard, and his hand’s moving fast. Oh fuck, he’s so fucking close when he says, through his pants,

“ _Inside,_ Kashi come _inside me_ —”

He cuts himself off when he comes all over Lance’s stomach. Then _Lance_ is coming all over Lance’s stomach (when did he even get hard enough to… holy shit this kid was unreal?). With a few more hard thrusts while Keith’s kissing Lance all slow and sweet, Shiro’s emptying himself inside of Keith, and the kid’s moaning soft against Lance’s mouth.

Shiro pulls out, watches his cum trickle out of Keith’s tiny hole. Before it can get to the sheets Shiro slips off his briefs and catches it.

Keith laughs. “What a gentleman.”

Lance laughs too. “Oh my God you guys are _so fucking lucky_ tomorrow’s Saturday. What if we had class?”

Shiro rolls over, takes Keith with him so Lance can adjust himself. Shiro says,

“That didn’t seem to bother you much a year and a half ago.”

Keith chuckles low while Lance is groaning.

“I was _excited_ okay! I had an adolescence full of inexperience and two dicks to suck. There was a lot of catching up to do.”

“Think you're all caught up now?” Keith asks through a yawn.

“Nah,” Lance muses. “I’m thinking it might take a little longer.”

He reaches over, slips a finger into Keith’s soft hole, wet with Shiro’s cum. Keith moans.

“Yeah, it’ll _definitely_ take a little longer.”

And just like that, Shiro falls straight into another wet dream. Shiro wonders if he’s gonna make it to graduation. Did anyone ever die from getting too much ass?

**Author's Note:**

> wow - the comments for this story have been so damn sweet, thank you💕💕💕 i've read them all and i love them all


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